


A Character Study On Connor McKinley

by With_a_backwards_w



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Gen, connor deserves nothing but love, kevin is not a prick in this one, way too many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:57:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/With_a_backwards_w/pseuds/With_a_backwards_w
Summary: Connor is broken. He lives in a state of in-between, in a world of barely-realised fantasies and half-hearted lies. He is constantly suffocating in his thoughts when he is alone, like a plastic bag over his head, playing memories in a loop over and over, spiralling, but the spiral never closes, the line that draws the spiral only gets thinner and thinner, like a snowflake. Infinite perimeter, yet finite area. Infinite time to think, yet a finite number of thoughts. But they, whoever pulled the bag over his head, poked just enough holes to breathe. It’s labour intensive and tiring, sure, but he still breathes, never daring to consider taking the plastic bag around his head off. He sees the world as thin grey plastic, synthetic and cheap; a fake smile on himself, a fake smile on Poptarts, a fake smile on Elder Church, a fake smile on everyone, because they were prettier, more enticing, more convincing that way.A short character study i did on the plane while i was tired and edgy. I found out I’m awful at them but oh well





	A Character Study On Connor McKinley

**Author's Note:**

> Its not my best, but i dont want this to go to waste so imma post it here regardless

It’s a forlorn Wednesday morning. By morning, of course, Connor means 1:45am. It was surprisingly less than pitch black outside, but it was hard to expect anything less from Uganda. The small district leader is seated on arm of a couch, much too on edge to let himself relax in the (admittedly rather lumpy) soft plush seat. He cups a small mug of herbal tea, brewed with loose-leaf tea. He never really cared for caffeine, but excruciating circumstances meant a temporary lapse in the rules, and as he sees it, in judgement. In this light, he looks frail and bony, prominent eye bags clashing harshly with his pale skin. Connor was too exhausted to sleep. He was stressed from micro-managing the other elders day in, day out, but he couldn’t seem to help it. He was thinly veiling an urge to turn it off again, stick on his Missionary Training Center Smile and relapse into that phantom of who he was, nothing but enthusiasm and an excessive amount of heavy coverage concealer to hide how he hadn’t been sleeping well for the past seven years. His normally auburn hair looks copper-and-tin in the sparse light a flickering lamp can provide. A half-read book sits on the small coffee table, torn and frayed from being read and re-read. Clothes are messily strewn over the floor, no doubt partially due to Elder Neely tipping over the laundry basket. Connor glances around at the mess, frowning. In the dim light, he can make out a rapidly growing pile of dirty plates sitting in the sink on top of each other. He sees house keys- Clearly Poptarts’, as he was running around frantically trying to find them last Thursday. Connor smiles to himself, but it’s small and half-hearted. He leans over to throw a crinkle cut chip wrapper into the bin, when he notices an abundance of paper torn up, filling up almost the entire trash bag. Driven by curiosity, and maybe a hint of concern, he picks up the largest piece he can find. There’s writing on it. It’s small and the paper is thin, and the very heavy weight of realisation punches him in the stomach.

The feeling isn’t necessarily painful, given they had been ex-communicated due to a caffeine-drunk Kevin and a maelstrom of lies from Arnold, but it certainly comes as a surprise. As Connor picks up the pieces individually, he sees sections highlighted, circled, underlined, like Connor’s copy of Hamlet he had kept since fifth grade. It took a lot of bargaining to get that book. Connor’s parents had deemed it far too violent, but after a lot of back and forth jabs, he decided to just steal it from the local high school’s library. He supposed no one really cared, for they didn’t notice whatsoever. He realised who the mutilated book sitting in the trash belonged to.

—

Kevin Price. He was very well one of his most confusing elders. He was egotistical and dreamed of some undeniably ambitious goals, and yet after the first week, something in him seemed to shatter, because he suddenly became an ugly anxious mess, harsh and guttural. Connor couldn’t deny, he was rather pretty. He had hair that was the colour of rust, a golden brown colour. His eyes were like whiskey through sunlight, pools of honey and stained glass windows in a church. He had half-tanned skin, which seemed to get darker every day he spent out making a difference, until callouses formed on his hand. He perplexed Connor, causing a crease in between his brows that most days he couldn’t seem to relax. He seemed to have no self worth, which contrasted strongly against the rosy red glasses he wore the first day he arrived, sweet, fragile little Kevin Price talking about how he wanted to become a prophet and follow in Joseph Smith’s shoes. Connor can’t seem to shake to feeling of having been lied to, ripped off. He was supposed to change everything, preach Mormonism and put his faith first. But all Connor was left with was an unknowingly conducted religious uprising against the very religion they came here to preach, seven scared and lost boys under his care, and funds that slowly dwindled and edged them closer to the poverty line day by day. That’s all the elders are, Connor decided, in reference to his second point on the list. They were barely adults, most of whom probably couldn’t have identified the smell of coffee until Kevin arrived at the mission hut that afternoon. And yet, he was expected to care for them, when he was also but a child. He’s utterly useless in an emergency. He defeats the entire purpose of being a leader. District Nine Leader, Uganda, East African mission, Elder Connor Joseph McKinley. Mormon Poster Boy, Elder Kevin Price. Labels are strange, he decides. He doesn’t want to hold some fancy title that makes Mormons too afraid to talk to him and non-Mormons think he’s a religious freak. It could be worse, though. Poptarts was permanently stuck with “Elder Chris ‘Poptarts’ Thomas, Second-in-command of the East African Mission, Uganda, District Nine, whose sister died of cancer when he was fifteen.” Second-in-command wasn’t even a real thing, but that was what the other elders had decided to go along with, a title, a definition, a label. Connor tries to snap himself out of his thoughts, delicately picking up Hamlet, which is patiently sitting on the table, the spine of the book so weak, it sits on the table flat. Act Three, Scene Two. Or was it Scene Three? Or Act Two, Scene Three? The words are blurry on the page. The whites of Connor’s eyes are red and tears cling to his eyelashes, despite feeling no hint of sadness. His eyes flick over the page, instinctively stopping at where Hamlet tells Claudius to go to Hell himself to search for Polonius. He has the dialogue highlighted in neon pink, with a scribble of his one of his worse Hell dreams sketched next to the text. It features Steve, in sixth grade with the fluffy blonde hair, morphing into the Devil and forcing Connor to commit what one tends to think are unforgivable sins at the age of twelve. Connor’s stomach rolls at the memory. As time progressed, his Hell dreams got worse, but this one had the distinct memory of Steve slowly torturing him and kissing and hugging him before he slowly morphed into Lucifer, who still kissed him and hugged him because his soul corrupted Steve’s. Connor had foolishly brought it up to Steve at the latter’s 13th birthday party. He would never forget the way the older boy’s eyes turned to cold, grey stone, as if Connor was no longer recognisable the longer he went on about it. Until finally, he whispered a guttural sound, one that hurt your ears and shattered your heart like it was ice.  
“Get the fuck out.”  
It was fine though. Steve wasn’t even Mormon.

Connor feels his heart sink at the memory. Steve deserved so much better, even as a tiny twelve year old who sneaked half a cookie into Connor’s lunch box when he was being disciplined by his parents for any number of things. He frowns, dreaming of what could have been.

—

Connor is broken. He lives in a state of in-between, in a world of barely-realised fantasies and half-hearted lies. He is constantly suffocating in his thoughts when he is alone, like a plastic bag over his head, playing memories in a loop over and over, spiralling, but the spiral never closes, the line that draws the spiral only gets thinner and thinner, like a snowflake. Infinite perimeter, yet finite area. Infinite time to think, yet a finite number of thoughts. But they, whoever pulled the bag over his head, poked just enough holes to breathe. It’s labour intensive and tiring, sure, but he still breathes, never daring to consider taking the plastic bag around his head off. He sees the world as thin grey plastic, synthetic and cheap; a fake smile on himself, a fake smile on Poptarts, a fake smile on Elder Church, a fake smile on everyone, because they were prettier, more enticing, more convincing that way.

A soft knock reverberates across the room, an Elder Price and his stupid face peeking at Connor. Connor blinks twice, rubbing at the tears that seemed to have slowly started leaking onto his face. He plasters on a smile before he can stop himself. He’s in too deep now, just by smiling, and there’s no turning it on for now.  
“Elder Price! Hello! What can I do for you this early morning?”  
He smiles relentlessly, enthusiastically, his tone sickeningly optimistic.  
“Elder McKinley? Are you okay? I woke up and I saw the light was on. How long has it been on?”  
“Perfectly fine, Elder! Why, I was simply doing some work! What’s the time now? I literally got up twenty minutes ago.” His brain is now alert and fully awake, ready to twist his tongue into a myriad of lies.  
Elder Price is silent, scuffing his shoes and glancing up, but never at Elder McKinley.  
“You know, we’re here for you, Elder. It isn’t your job to give and give. You can talk to me about anything. You know that, right?”  
Connor gulps, not sure how to respond.

_good mormons don’t lie_  
_good mormons don’t lie_  
_good mormons don’t lie_  
_good mormons don’t lie_

“I’m perfectly aware, Elder Price. Thank you for your concern, but I am okay.”  
“Okay.”  
The pair falls into silence. The clock reads 4:52am, when Elder Price walks back into his room silently.

—

“Elder Price, can I talk to you for a second after breakfast?”  
The mood is sullen the next morning. Poptarts picks at his cereal, slowly sipping the milk. Elder Davis waits for someone to break the silence. McKinley, who usually starts most conversations, seems far off. His skin looks a little too unnatural today, a little too shiny and uneven, especially under his eyes. Elder Price looks up from slowly biting into his bland toast, or more accurately, bread.

“Elder McKinley? You wanted to see me?”  
The district leader is huddled over his work, and takes around five seconds before he looks up at Kevin, a reminder playing across his face.  
“Kevin. Come in. I need your help with..” He waves his hands in a subtle motion.

“Everything. I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to you.”

—

Connor is still broken. He still suffocates sometimes. He still stays up in fear of his Hell dreams when they get particularly bad. The difference is, his friends, no longer the children he thinks they are, help him. And the Hell dreams begin to lessen, and his copy of Hamlet is touched less, and the spiral’s line no longer thins out. And he goes longer and longer without staying up, holding a cup of herbal tea at 2am in the morning, and phases out his Missionary Training center smile until it’s a rarity. And he begins to think that he’ll be okay for the most part, with Kevin and the elders nearby.


End file.
